


Lacuna

by sister_coyote



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-07
Updated: 2006-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent is a mystery.  Reeve is entirely too curious for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lacuna

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the original game, Vincent's backstory.

Reeve's office was dark and still when he unlocked it, but he could see a crescent of light spilling out from the open door to the makeshift conference room. He suppressed a sigh. Yuffie _could_ have had an office of her own—real estate in Edge wasn't exactly in high demand—but she'd turned down the offer, adamantly and with several choice words. The best he'd managed to get out of her was a promise to check her messages on a semi-regular basis. He suspected that her unwillingness was one part perversity, two parts a desire not to be _too_ easy to get hold of, and one more part pure pleasure at breaking into his office whenever she needed any of the accoutrements.

He stuck his head around the doorframe. Sure enough, she was sitting on the edge of the conference table, feet swinging, eating Wutaian takeout from a paper box and watching a grainy recording on fast-forward on the video display. It looked like Shinra headquarters, but the decor and clothing in the recording dated it to at least thirty years prior, perhaps more.

"Someday I'm going to think you're a burglar and shoot you by accident."

"I'd like to see you try," she said without looking away from the screen.

Well, there was that. She was young and moderately feckless and sometimes obnoxious, but she was _fast_.

"I thought you said that stuff wasn't anything like 'actual food from actual Wutai,'" he added, shucking off his jacket.

"It isn't." She fished a deep-fried glob of something bathed in translucent red sauce out of the box with her chopsticks. "I didn't say it wasn't _good_, just that it wasn't authentic."

"Right. I'll leave you to your, uh . . . "

"You wanted me to find information on what Shinra was up to right before buying out Cantor Corporation." She pointed at the screen with her chopsticks. "So I'm finding."

"On fast-forward?"

"Like I'm going to go through hundreds of hours of Shinra security tapes in realtime. I'm looking for key faces. Don't complain—this is really godawful boring and I'm about ready to give it up."

But the thing about Yuffie was that she wouldn't give up. She'd bitch, but once she got the bit between her teeth on a problem, she'd charge through it until she succeeded, out of sheer muleheadedness if nothing else. Stopping her, or, hell, steering her, _that_ was a problem—so you didn't give her any task you wanted control over. But if you just needed something done, she'd get it done.

It was usually best not to ask too many questions about her methods, though.

He left her to it, and sank into his chair, dropping the day's stack of papers onto the growing stack in the wire 'to do' basket and starting his computer.

Twenty minutes later, he heard a startled squeak. "Reeve, c'mere."

"Is it important? Because—"

"Just get in here. Trust me."

Yuffie was right on the edge of the table, and it was a good thing she had good balance or she'd have fallen right off on her ass. "Look," she said. "Do you see what I see?"

She'd slowed the tape to normal speed; it was still muted. He saw a much-younger President Shinra—perhaps in his thirties—flanked by two Turks, one male and one female. Shinra was talking. The Turks were . . . doing standard Turk bodyguard duty. "What?"

"Look! Looklook. The Turk on the left." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "It's _Vincent_."

And, sure enough, it was. He looked . . . young, with his hair shorter and cut in a style that fell in his eyes, and there was quite a bit more color in his skin and his hair was dark brown and not black, but the shape of his face—his jaw, his nose, the tilt of his eyes—was the same.

"Well," he said slowly, "No great surprise. He _was_ a Turk."

"Yeah." Yuffie sat back a little, crossing her legs at the ankle, and gave the recording a considering look before rendering verdict: "He was cute."

Reeve looked at her.

"Well, he _was_."

President Shinra said something to the pair of them and moved out of view of the camera. The female Turk—a hawk-nosed woman with dark braids wrapped around her head—said something to Vincent, who—and this was startling—_laughed_. It was a very normal laugh, but it transformed his face. Reeve had never seen him laugh like that; had never heard anything but a dry and usually bitter chuckle from the man. He would have laid odds that Vincent hadn't really laughed since he'd woken up, and maybe even for a while before.

Yuffie went for the remote so fast she almost knocked it on the floor. She un-muted in time to catch the end of his response.

". . . trying to kill me. I told you you aren't going to get out of having a partner that easily." His voice was different, too—definitely the same person's voice, but smoother, and not quite so low.

"C'mon," said his partner. "Wuss. Malak and Jon are coming . . ." The two wandered out of range of the cameras.

Yuffie whistled and hit the fast-forward button. "Ooh. Maybe he's in it again later."

Well, if it kept her entertained . . .. . But: "Cute?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Oh, totally," she drawled. "What? I'm only human." And nineteen, more to the point. "Not that he's hard on the eyes now either, of course. If you like the broody pretty vampire admire-my-_pain_ thing."

Reeve snorted, although, privately, he had to admit she wasn't wrong. "I'll leave you to your tape."

But he found, as he returned to his computer, the he couldn't get one image out of his mind: a moment of genuine laughter.

***

_Tala's taste in restaurants is legendary—legendary for the amount of courage it demands of her dining companions. There's the Gongagan hole-in-the-wall that she swears by that serves a curry that'll burn clear through your tongue, and the Wutaian seafood place where you'll probably be happiest if you don't ask what exactly you're eating._

_He goes every week, anyway—he gives her shit about it, but he goes. At first because he didn't know anybody at Shinra and felt a little isolated, and then because he didn't have anything better to do, but now it's because he likes them._

_He likes the way Jon leans so far back in his chair that he's just about to tip over—but never quite does. He likes the way Malak looks like he's tempted to kick Jon's chair over just to see what he'll do. He likes the way Tala has her feet on the table and the menu open, her braid down but still spiked with the pins that held it up when she was on duty, so she looks a bit like a hedgehog._

_"Here's one for you," she says. "'Spicy Sesame Noodles with Cayenne Chicken Croquettes. These fiery little delicacies—'"_

_"You can stop right there." Vincent sinks into a chair, draping his arm over the back. Jon rocks his chair forward far enough to push a beer his way, then rocks back again._

_"You should trust your partner," Tala says. "I trust you as far as I could throw you—and I could throw your skinny ass a long way."_

_"Charming as always, Tal," he says, but he can't repress his smile._

***

Reeve told himself that it was coincidence, but he wasn't so sure. He _did_ need to look at some of the old reports, but he certainly didn't have to go down to the warehouse where all the old Shinra files had been accessioned himself. There were plenty of aides who could have been sent . . . and yet he went himself.

The warehouse was really only an archive in the loosest sense. The boxes of files were in loosely chronological order, but apart from that were scattered and badly-marked. Several W.R.O. analysts and a librarian had begun the monumental task of sifting through them for useful information and re-ordering them, but realistically it was likely to take years. Furthermore, half the boxes had been lost to looters the first winter after Meteor. (He couldn't blame the culprits—without mako-powered electric heating, they had to keep warm _somehow_, and thick stacks of paper burned beautifully.)

He knelt on the cement floor, riffling through a box of old Shinra records, and was only a little bit surprised, really, when his thumb paused on a thick file with a neatly-typed label: "Valentine, Vincent."

The part of him that was Reeve Tuesti, head of the W.R.O. and all-around responsible human being said, _You don't need that information, and it's really not your business._

The part of him that was Cait Sith was really, really curious about the stranger with Vincent's face he'd seen on the recording.

He wondered if he should be concerned about how often the Cait Sith impulses won out.

He justified it to himself with fluency born of experience. Vincent ought to have the file; it was his past, and he had so few artifacts of it. And if he didn't want it, then it was his business to dispose of it. Yes, he would take the file in order to give it back to Vincent. (_And no one will know if you sneak a peek at it before you hand it over,_ Cait Sith noted in the back of his mind with a snigger.)

He was good; he set the folder aside through the rest of the workday and concentrated on the reports he'd actually gone to find. It wasn't until the end of the day—with sunset long past, and a bowl of noodles ordered up for his makeshift supper—that he let himself indulge his curiosity.

Most of the files in the folder were of little interest. Tax return information, a copy of his health insurance policy, a retirement benefits prospectus. He shuffled through them, wondering if he'd overstepped his bounds for nothing, and then a Shinra ID badge slipped out and fell on the desk. Its plastic sleeve was brittle with age, but clear as anything, there was a photograph of Vincent, his eyes glazed with the blank stare that overtook everyone getting their picture taken.

***

_Today he has been weighed, poked, prodded, had blood drawn, been questioned and re-questioned and then questioned again, had a polygraph, had another polygraph, been fitted for a suit, had his blood pressure taken and his reflexes checked, been asked to supply the names and addresses of three family members and four non-family friends, and by now Vincent is just about sick of it and is also beginning to wonder if this is some sort of bizarre test of fortitude or patience._

_But no. One more face appears before him—a woman with too-bright lipstick and tired eyes—and she says, "Just one more thing, dear. Hold still for the camera." He barely has time to compose his face before the flash goes off, and then there's a whirring noise and the machine spits out a thin bit of cardboard. "Is this okay?" she asks, flashing it under his nose too fast for him to actually get a good look, but at this point he would agree to pretty much anything. He nods, and she slides it in a plastic sleeve with a clip, and says, "Here. Bring this with you tomorrow or they won't let you in. Eight AM sharp."_

***

Reeve studied the picture, trying to map the features of the young man in the picture—twenty-one years old at time of photographing, to judge by the date of issue—with the face of the Vincent he knew. And yet—and yet part of the difference was that Vincent now seemed . . . ancient with grief. The cheekbones were the same, the nose, the chin, but there was something indefinably different that went beyond the darkening of his hair, the paling of his skin.

He slid the ID card back under the paperclip that had held it to the folder. The next thing in the folder was the set of scores for Vincent's marksmanship exam, with enthusiastic comments written up and down the margins; a report detailing his down time for a broken wrist, complete with the notation that the cost of the potions used to repair said wrist should be taken out of his next paycheck, as reckless motorcycle driving after hours was _not_ the responsibility of Shinra Inc.; and his employee review form. The last thing in the folder was a slip of paper, clearly a photocopy of a photocopy and very faded, detailing an assignment. Reeve held it up to the light. "Marksman needed for bodyguard duty. Niebelheim. V. Valentine recommended. Partner not needed; reassign."

His stomach dropped, and suddenly he felt very much as though he were genuinely invading Vincent's privacy. Meticulously, he put the paper back in the folder, and slid it closed.

***

_"They can't send you to Niebelheim," Malak protests. "Who's going to be our sniper?"_

_"I'm not even your partner," Vincent says, mildly, to cover his own dismay. He has just begun to really click with them, they're working together like a team ought to, and to be assigned to bodyguard duty in some backwater—_

_"Yeah, but you might as well be, we get assigned out together often enough," Jon puts in. "Fuck. Niebelheim."_

_"Eh, look at the bright side," Tala says. "Rest, relaxation away from the hustle and bustle of Midgar life, and a sweet assignment playing bodyguard to some scientist. How hard can that be? Then you'll come back and I'll harass the director until they assign you back to us, and we'll be good as gold, yeah?"_

_"Anyway, this woman you're guarding, maybe she's hot," Jon says. Tala rolls her eyes._

***

He arranged to meet Vincent at Seventh Heaven, and took a private corner table. He could feel Tifa's curious eyes on them, but she was too well-mannered to ask, and though he felt bad for being all mysterious, this was really Vincent's to share—or not.

Vincent's eyes flickered up to him with curiosity when he sat down. He thought about delaying the awkwardness by ordering a drink, but looking at Vincent's inquisitive eyes, he couldn't bring himself to do it. "I found this when I was in the archives," he said, and pushed the folder across to Vincent. "I thought—it's yours. You can keep it or burn it or whatever. But it's your past."

Vincent took the folder and deftly flicked it open. He sifted through a few of the items. Reeve watched his face, which remained . . . impassive, even stoic. Vincent turned one of the documents sideways, then abruptly realigned it and flipped the whole thing closed.

"Did you read it?" he asked. His voice was quiet, low as always, and Reeve had a lot of trouble trying to interpret it.

He exhaled. "Yes," he said. "I shouldn't have, and I knew that, but I did."

Vincent looked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Vincent opened the file folder again. Reeve tried not to squirm. Finally, without looking up, Vincent asked, "Why?"

"Because I was curious. Because we don't know anything about who you were, before—and we don't know much about who you are now because you're so quiet and because—" He paused. "Because you keep wandering _off_. As soon as any of us get close to you, you're gone. So I was . . . curious."

A muscle twitched in Vincent's cheek. "I confess I do not understand what is so intriguing to you."

"Are you kidding? You show up, say a few cryptic things—"

"—shoot something, usually—" Vincent said, and Reeve looked up quickly to see that: yes, there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"—yes, and then you _vanish_ again."

"And for some reason, this makes you want to find out more about me, rather than being glad to see the back of me?"

Reeve chewed the inside of his lip. "Yes," he finally said. "Because I can't _stand_ a locked box I can't get inside of."

And maybe that wasn't the most fortuitous choice of words, but it made Vincent's mouth twitch in what looked like the beginning of a consideration of an attempt at a smile. Which was _progress_.

"You could ask," he said.

"I would have, if I'd thought you would say something other than—"

"What?"

Reeve wondered how brave he actually was. Or maybe stupid was the word, but: "Blah blah sin blah blah penance blah blah demons blah blah."

Vincent made a choked noise. Reeve wondered if he was going to get shot. But then he realized that, somewhere between the high collar of the cloak and the concealing edge of his scarf, Vincent was _laughing_.

"All right," he said. "Ask. I can't promise I'll answer, but . . . ."

"Tell me about your partner."

"Tala?" Vincent's eyes lifted in surprise. "Well. . . . I don't know what to tell you. She was—she—er—" He floundered a moment, and then said, "She was a nuisance, actually. But a very competent one. We were never . . . attracted to one another—for which we were both grateful, that would have complicated things—but she had the best taste in restaurants of anyone in Midgar, even though I wouldn't tell her so." He took a thoughtful sip of his drink. "And she used to be very good at distracting people so I could shoot them."

Reeve sat back in his chair to listen, but not before a mental thanks to the part of him that was Cait Sith. In the back of his head, Cait Sith was almost _unbearably_ smug.


End file.
